


Bloodlines

by KCKenobi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Dysfunctional Family, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Gen, Grandparent Dooku (Star Wars), Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Mentioned Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Stranded, Whump, lineage feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KCKenobi/pseuds/KCKenobi
Summary: When an explosion traps them in the same doomed escape pod, Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Dooku are stranded together on Tatooine. The goal is simple: cooperate long enough to survive, and not a second longer. But a shared past has a way of connecting the people we think we know—and bloodlines run deep.[or: your classic family road trip across a desert planet, except your grandpa is, you know, a Sith Lord. And now he's sort of starting to bond with your Jedi dad. And that might be an issue.]
Relationships: Dooku & Anakin Skywalker, Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 180
Kudos: 401





	1. Premonitions

**_T h e n_ **

Someone is going to die in this story. Though none of _them_ knew that yet.

Right now, all Anakin knew was this—he was sick and tired of hanging on by a thread.

His arms hurt, his head hurt, his back hurt. This was war, of course—aches and pains were part of the job description. But as he hung onto the edge of Dooku’s exploding ship, watching the Sith Lord himself disappear yet again into the smokey horizon, Anakin briefly contemplated just letting go and plummeting down the rest of the way.

“Need a lift?”

Anakin turned as best he was able—still dangling from one hand as the ship fell to pieces. And there, in a beaten speeder below him, was Obi-Wan.

“You certainly have a habit of falling off of things,” he said.

Anakin shrugged. “I learned from watching you.”

Obi-Wan didn’t dignify that with more than an eyeroll.

They made it back to the ship with little fanfare—which was nothing short of a miracle, given recent events. Oba Diah was relatively quiet, and with Dooku gone, the Pykes paid them little mind. When Anakin gave a hard exhale, the sound was engulfed by the hiss of the boarding ramp closing behind them.

“He escaped. _Again._ ”

“Did he really? Odd—I could’ve sworn he walked back here with us,” Obi-Wan said dryly.

“I should’ve had him.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, “we both know this loss is not your fault.”

Anakin was about to continue, lamenting Dooku’s cowardness or his dramatics or his insistence upon sending others to do his dirty work. But as he entered the cockpit, his mind returning to the moment, the words stuck to his throat. He sensed something. Something… _off_. He studied Obi-Wan’s stilted pace, watched the way he chewed the inside of his cheek.

Anakin’s eyes narrowed.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Fine.” Obi-Wan sank into the co-pilot seat and started the launch sequence, though Anakin noticed his fingers fumble the buttons.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Anakin pressed. “Looked like you got hit pretty hard when Dooku kicked your ass.”

“He did _not_ kick my—” Obi-Wan cut himself off with an exhale. When he turned to Anakin, the look of amusement was forced. “He kicked me in the _chest_. And I’m fine.”

“Alright, alright. Just checking.”

Anakin kicked the ship into gear and the engines rumbled to life, filling the cockpit with a deep and comforting hum. But even as he sank into the familiar rhythm, he couldn’t quite relax—the Force rippled with unease, and it wasn’t his own.

His eyes trailed again to Obi-Wan.

He really _did_ look fine. With the exception of the darkness beneath his eyes and a weary slouch of the shoulders that plagued so many Jedi as the war dragged on, Obi-Wan had mastered the art of facades. But Anakin found his mind drawn back to the precipice—to the flash of Dooku’s blade against his, against Obi-Wan’s, to the spark in the Force that something was about to give. How Obi-Wan had fallen off the edge. Held his grip, pulled himself up, returned to the fight. But never quite recovered his poise.

Even now.

“That could’ve happened to anyone, you know,” Anakin said quietly. He punched the coordinates into the nav and leaned back. “Anyone would’ve lost their balance—”

“I shouldn’t have, though,” he said, then sighed. “But there’s no use dwelling on mistakes, I know, so long as you learn from them.” He gave a weak smile. “Qui-Gon always used to say that to me.”

“Just like you used to say it to me.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes. Such is a lineage—we learn from those who taught us, but also those who taught them,” he said. “You are as much Qui-Gon’s Padawan as you were mine. And Yoda’s.”

“And Dooku’s.”

At that, Obi-Wan’s smile drained away. He didn’t answer.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Anakin said. “You’re distracted. On Geonosis. On Florrum. Even now.”

“What bothers me?”

“Him.” The ship lifted off the ground, and Anakin used the moment of turbulence to decide how to phrase his next words. “He’s bound to you, in some weird way. Like you said—even if you never learned from Dooku directly, he’s played some role in the person you are now,” he said. “I mean, he’s your grandmaster.”

“He _was_ my grandmaster,” Obi-Wan correctly, with a bit more sharpness than Anakin expected to hear. “And, in any case, I never met him before he left the Order. He’s a Sith Lord—and as long as I’ve known him, he’s always been a Sith Lord. There’s nothing lost. Nothing to mourn.”

“So then why do you get so unbalanced?”

There was a long moment of nothing—nothing but the hum of the ship and the swirl of clouds as they lifted from the atmosphere—during which Anakin wondered if Obi-Wan would answer at all. Wondered if he’d pushed just a little too hard.

But then he exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Imagine…imagine you fighting Qui-Gon.”

“That’s not the same,” Anakin said. Then, stating the obvious, added, “Qui-Gon wasn’t a literal Sith Lord. And besides. I _knew_ him.”

“Did you?”

Anakin opened his mouth to insist that of _course_ he did. Qui-Gon was a good man—a leader, wise and bold, who freed slaves and fought evil and protected the weak and weary. But then he found his mind trailing to back to when he was young—to the few times Obi-Wan had actually managed to speak of his old Master. The memories he’d alluded to, ones that didn’t seem at all like the Qui-Gon he remembered. There had been something about children on a war-torn planet—the name of which Anakin couldn’t remember now—whom Qui-Gon had argued weren’t theirs to save. Something about another Padawan, before Obi-Wan. Something about loss. As the fragments came back to him, Anakin suddenly wondered how much he didn’t know.

Still, he shook his head. “I knew enough.”

“Yes, that is usually the way of things. With those who’ve raised us, we know enough. But we will never know everything,” he said. “Twelve years with Qui-Gon taught me a great many things. But I never did learn who he really was—at his core.”

His fingers drummed against his knee, and Anakin could practically hear the rhythm. Anakin didn’t speak, hoping his silence would keep Obi-Wan talking—an old negotiation trick his Master had taught him long ago—and, as expected, it worked.

“Once, after he died, I found his old journals. I was cleaning out his room,” he said. “Most of the writing was illegible anyhow. But I suppose…reading tidbits of his life before me was a reminder that, well…there _was_ a before. And there would be an after. Well, there would have been.” He cleared his throat, eyes cast down. “That’s the thing about those who’ve raised us—they live so much life without you, while you’ve never lived a day without them.”

“Until you have to.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied, his voice much softer now. “Until you have to.”

Silence engulfed them as the ship broke atmosphere. Anakin leaned forward and oriented the ship, dragging them against the pull of gravity, until he could send them into hyperspace. As the stars turned to streaks, Obi-Wan leaned back and closed his eyes. And in the passing moments, they both tried to forget about it—about Dooku and lineages and people who leave.

And they did.

Until the next time.

•·················•·················•

**_N o w_ **

There was nothing but light.

Blue on red. Just Dooku’s blade—that was what Anakin focused on. Saved him from having to stare at Dooku’s ugly face. So he slashed and blocked and parried, and beside him, felt Obi-Wan doing the same.

Anakin wasn’t sure exactly how long they had before the ship blew—but the red alert alarms were blaring and the hallways flooded with evacuating crew, so he knew it couldn’t be long. His eyes flickered over Dooku’s shoulder. In the upcoming intersection, droids and officers alike crowded the corridor. Without turning his head, he called to Obi-Wan:

“Traffic ahead.”

“Careful, Count,” Obi-Wan said with a grin. “You know what they say about old ladies crossing the street.”

Obi-Wan landed a kick square in Dooku’s chest, and Anakin laughed. They were in sync now—they always were, but this time, this time…there was something else. He could sense a new resolve in Obi-Wan, and in himself. The feeling that this might be _it_.

Dooku snarled as he blocked the next strike—like he was really putting up a desperate fight. Like even _he_ knew this time was different. The Force swirled as Anakin drew back, letting Obi-Wan take his place against Dooku’s blade as he himself ran up the side of the wall. He came down on Dooku’s other side—boxing him in.

He kicked Dooku in the back of the knees. Dooku stumbled forward, toward Obi-Wan, slashing a bit wildly. Too wildly. Off balance.

Anakin pressed forward.

They turned into the adjacent hall, melting into the torrent of people who bolted for escape pods. But still their blades didn’t slow. Obi-Wan matched Anakin’s strikes, complemented them perfectly, two minds and two movements made one.

Until at last, the advance stopped—it had to.

Dooku had hit a wall.

“Valiant effort, boys,” he said, his boot striking the corner as he tried to step back, “but this is the end.”

“Yeah,” Anakin said, “for you.”

Dooku’s laughter was deep and slow. “Always so sure of themselves, the young.”

“And what does that say about the old?”

Anakin started to lunge, but a hand from Obi-Wan pushed him back.

“Surrender,” Obi-Wan said. “It is your best option. Grant us the information we seek, and submit yourself to Republic custody.”

“The information you seek,” Dooku replied, “is no longer in the ship’s systems. Your mission has failed.”

“Not yet.”

Behind them, Anakin heard the murmur of voices and rushing feet. A nearby escape pod opened. Then, silence—silence, except for the sound of the blaring alarms, Anakin’s breath, and the hum of his lightsaber as he pressed it near to Dooku’s neck.

“You have the file,” he hissed. “Or you know where it is. And unless you want this moment to be your last, you’ll tell us.”

“I’ll tell you this—no threat of yours will ever match the severity of that which is coming for you.”

“What, Separatists?” Anakin said. “Cause I’m pretty sure we’ve got it under control.”

“Foolish boy. Still believing this war is about the Republic and the Separatists—about differing ideologies,” Dooku said. “Still believing it will end.” When Anakin moved his blade closer, he didn’t flinch. “For you, the future is unknowable. For me, it is immutable. And whether you have the file you want, or not, it will still come to pass. And you will still fall.”

“We’re not afraid.”

“You should be,” Dooku said, his voice light as a breath. “Oh, you should be.”

Anakin slashed his blade downward and Dooku blocked—but there was nowhere else for him to run. Beside him, he felt Obi-Wan lunge.

But then Dooku’s hand was outstretched—and with the Force, he pressed a button. Something beeped.

The door to the escape pod slid open, and Dooku stepped inside.

Yet before Anakin or Obi-Wan had a moment to react, before they could follow him or yank him out or bring their blades down—

_BOOM._

The blast came from behind them.

The ship began to implode.

And Anakin and Obi-Wan were launched forward—through the doors, into the escape pod, into Dooku.

Anakin hit the wall first. He felt Obi-Wan collapse on top of him, felt Dooku off somewhere to his right. Through the ringing of his ears and the vertigo, he could just make out the sound of a door sliding shut. The beep of a lock.

Another blast rocked the ship and sent the escape pod shooting out into space, moving at a far faster velocity than one was ever intended to go. Anakin struck his head against the durasteel wall, sending streaks of black through his vision. But before he could worry about it—before he could move to the controls and slow them down—

Someone is going to die in this story. And as his eyes fluttered closed, Anakin just hoped it wasn’t going to be him.


	2. Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a strange encounter in the desert, a regret, and something our Jedi don't know

Anakin sat up before he’d even opened his eyes—and instantly slammed his head into durasteel.

“ _Kriff—_ ”

Rubbing his forehead, he flopped back down to the floor. _Crash landings,_ he thought bitterly. _Always crash landings._

A groan filtered into his consciousness. Sitting up again—carefully this time—Anakin’s eyes searched the half-collapsed escape pod as memories trickled in. _A battle above Geonosis._ _Searching for something—the files. New intel. Something big. Dooku. A warning—_

“Anakin?”

Something shifted beneath him, and Anakin realized he wasn’t actually sitting on the floor.

“Oh.” He slid sideways off Obi-Wan’s chest. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Why is it that whenever I’m with you,” he rasped in reply, “we never manage to land on a planet the normal way?”

Anakin cracked his neck, feeling his achy vertebrae shift. “And what fun would that be?”

“Certainly more fun than _this._ ”

The words came from over Anakin’s shoulder, and both he and Obi-Wan whirled.

“Dooku.”

His lightsaber was ignited before he’d even said the word, but then Obi-Wan was waving him down.

“Calm down, Anakin. That won’t be necessary. Given the circumstances, I don’t believe he’s going anywhere,” he said. “And neither are we, unless we get a move on. Now, up—the escape pod certainly won’t get us off this planet, but the comms should still be functional. We’ll call for Republic troops to pick us—”

“Not so fast,” Dooku said, rising to his feet and stepping between Anakin and Obi-Wan. “Separatist forces will come to our aid. After all, you are _my_ prisoners.”

“Prisoners?” Anakin said. “Funny, I don’t remember us surrendering to you.”

“I believe in combat, getting knocked out in the midst of battle qualifies as resignation.”

“Were you not _also_ knocked out?”

“Alright, Anakin. Count.”

They turned. Obi-Wan had moved to the control panel, and pulled up a map of the sector. The navigator, at least, was still intact. Anakin peered over Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Where are we?” he said, eyes searching the screen. “Did we crash back down to Geonosis?”

“No. Propulsion from the blast sent us further—over half a parsec,” Obi-Wan said. He turned, and when his eyes met Anakin’s, they were guarded. “We’re on Tatooine.”

And if Anakin’s ears hadn’t been ringing before, they certainly were now.

“Okay,” he said, eyes flickering down to the map again, tracing the spherical form. “Okay. Yeah. Just—have Rex send a transport, I guess.”

“Anakin—”

“And tell him to step on it.” Anakin swiped the control panel, and the screen went black. “So we can get the hell off this dustbowl.”

Obi-Wan was studying him, he knew it, but Anakin didn’t stare back. Instead, he turned to Dooku—who had ignited his lightsaber and begun tracing a hole in the side of the escape pod. Better to focus on what was right in front of him, anyway—rather than the darkness behind.

Still, though, he felt the loom of shadows.

“Careful,” Anakin said to Dooku. “If you cut through the wrong wiring—”

“These are _my_ escape pods, Skywalker,” Dooku said. “I believe I know what I’m doing.”

“If you knew what you were doing, we wouldn’t have been able to blow up your stupid ship in the first place.”

“And if _you_ knew what you were doing,” Dooku said, flourishing his blade as the makeshift door fell open, “you wouldn’t have blown it up while you were still onboard.”

“Hold on, hold on.”

Anakin still had more to say, and he nearly had to bite down on his lip to keep from saying it. But Obi-Wan was holding up a hand, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Do you smell that?” he said.

“What, the stench of the Count’s head? Having it stuffed up your ass for so long tends to do that.”

But Anakin did turn, sniffing the air. And, sure enough— _kriff._

“Gas,” he said. “There’s a leak.”

“That isn’t a problem. The gas will leak externally, through pores in the bottom of the vessel,” Dooku said. “It will disperse into the air.”

“Except it’s not leaking into the air, it’s leaking into—” The thought dawned on Anakin, and his eyes widened. “ _Sand—_ go, go, get out!”

And then Anakin was pushing Obi-Wan through the hole in the escape pod and tumbling into the hot golden sand, scrambling back from the durasteel sphere just in time to—

_BOOM._

The vessel shot upward and exploded just as Anakin squeezed his eyes shut.

Bits of metal and shrapnel rained down upon them like ash, fluttering in the twin sunlight. Anakin was on his hands and knees in the sand, and beside him, Obi-Wan leaned back on his palms.

“Ah,” he said, then looked sheepish. “Good call, my young Padawan.”

“Pressure build-up,” Anakin said. “So much for calling for help.”

Anakin stood and dusted the sand from his hands and knees, grimacing at the texture. Already he could feel the heat of two suns scorching the top of his head, his shoulders, his skin. The familiar prickle of sweat. The wind was faint, a blessing and a curse—no sand storms, at least.

But this burnt-piece-of-toast of a planet certainly was hot.

“Where are we?” Obi-Wan said, rising to stand himself. “Are there any settlements nearby?”

Anakin’s eyes scanned the horizon. In the distance, he could see the bumpy start of the Jundland Wastes.

“We’re in the Western Dune Sea, I think,” he said. “Mos Espa is like…a three-day hike.”

“Well then, boys…” Dooku spit the last of the sand from his mouth and cleared his throat, grimacing. “May the Force be with you, and all that—I believe this is where we part ways.”

He took one step before Anakin cut him off. “Hold up. Where exactly do you think you’re going?”

“I already told you, Skywalker. Separatist forces—”

“—will find you wandering the desert, lost and dehydrated and completely looney from the heat. Or dead.” Dooku’s eyes skirted upward, narrowing as he looked toward the scorching suns. “Yeah. So you’ll need me to navigate. I know this sandbox. You don’t. And besides, what happened to ‘you are my prisoners’?”

He gave his best Dooku imitation, at which Obi-Wan chuckled quietly behind him. Anakin folded his arms across his chest, and when Dooku’s eyes met his again, they were resigned.

“Fine. We travel together. It’s in our best interest to combine our assets,” Dooku said, then straightened. “Although I believe you’ll find that I’m the biggest asset of all.”

“You’re half right,” Anakin said, and this time Obi-Wan laughed outright.

And so began the journey—trekking across the sand, without truly knowing what they journeyed toward.

•·················•·················•

“Are we there yet?”

Anakin meant it as a joke—he used to drive Obi-Wan up a wall when he was young, on long journeys or slow-moving missions—but there was a hint of truth to his impatience even now. Beside him, Obi-Wan rolled his eyes.

“You tell me,” he said. “You’re the one who knows where we’re going.”

Anakin groaned. “I’d rather live in denial,” he said. “Hey, how’s your ration supply?”

Obi-Wan looked down at his utility belt and thumbed through the survival capsules. “Enough food for a few days,” he said, then grimaced. “Enough water until…maybe tomorrow.”

“Gotcha,” Anakin said. “Same here. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Ah,” Dooku said, looking smug, “I told you I’d be the biggest asset.” He reached into his belt and produced a canteen far bigger than either Anakin’s or Obi-Wan’s. “This will last us until Mos Espa so long as we’re strategic. That is, if I decide to share.”

“You will,” Anakin said, “or else you’ll wake up tomorrow to find yourself alone and stranded in the Dune Sea. How does that sound?”

“At the moment? Far more enjoyable than your company.”

Obi-Wan looked wry. “The sentiment, dear Count, I assure you is mutual.”

And so it continued this way—Anakin and Obi-Wan took turns making jibes at Dooku, which he promptly ignored or shot back with something stupidly pompous. But as he and Obi-Wan shared a look and high-fived behind Dooku’s back, Anakin felt something warm in his chest. This planet sucked, yeah. He was fighting to keep bad memories at bay, and each pinprick of heat was a reminder of what he’d done, what he’d lost. But right now, Obi-Wan was asking Dooku if he needed to rest his arthritic knees and smirking at the Count’s irritable reply. And right now, Anakin was laughing.

Until he saw her, and the laughter withered and died.

Anakin stopped walking. “Do you see that?”

Obi-Wan paused a few paces ahead, Dooku a moment later. He followed Anakin’s gaze out into the distant dunes, eyes narrowing. “See what?”

But all he could do was shake his head.

There was a woman. Out in the distance, standing alone, back turned. Not walking. Just there. The image wavered in the heat, and Anakin’s hearing went fuzzy, and he’d think he was staring at a ghost or a hologram if not for the striking detail of the braids in her hair, the dirt and grime on the back of her dress, the fringes at the bottom.

“Maybe she can help us,” Anakin murmured. “Maybe there’s…a speeder, or—”

“Skywalker,” Dooku hissed. “ _Who?_ ”

Anakin was about to gesture forward again, to ask them how they could miss her when she was the only kriffing thing besides sand for as far as the eye could see.

But then the woman turned. He saw her face. His mouth fell open.

And then, Anakin started to run.

“ _Mom_?”

His feet were hitting the sand and sliding back in that godawful way, and Obi-Wan’s voice called distantly after him, but all he could see was this— _her_ , right in front of him, standing with her hands at her sides and palms turned up like a waiting welcome. Her face was still fuzzy from the distance. But he’d recognize it anywhere—the crinkles in the corners of her eyes, the close-lipped smile. Because yes—yes, it was her, it was _her_ —

“Anakin—”

He knew the voice was male, and came from behind him. Yet still he heard it coming from her lips, and ran even faster.

“Anakin! Wait!”

But it didn’t seem like he was getting any closer. No matter how fast he pumped his legs and how hard his heels dug into the sand, still his mother seemed far off.

Then he blinked.

And when his eyes opened again, her body was streaked in rivulets of blood.

His feet faltered. And then it was as if he were falling—as if the sand had shifted and was swallowing him hole, as if his feet were stones and sank to the bottom. _Her face. Her hands. Her hair. All blood, all blood—_ But there was a hand on his shoulder, then. Two of them, the second on his wrist. Holding him up. The _only_ thing holding him up, preventing him from being sucked downward to the core of this dusty rock, and—

“Obi-Wan.”

The words croaked as they came out. But he squinted up at his former Master, twin sunlight burning his eyes.

“Steady, now,” Obi-Wan said. “You’re alright.”

Anakin realized he’d been lowered to the ground. He sat back on his hands with his knees bent, and Obi-Wan was crouching beside him. He swallowed.

“I saw…” He stammered, shaking his head. “She was right there.”

“Who?”

He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “My mother.”

At this, Obi-Wan’s eyes saddened. He tore his gaze from Anakin’s after a long moment, looking out into the dunes, before he grimaced.

“Anakin…there’s no one there.”

He turned. Found the spot he remembered her standing.

And, like a mirage, she’d vanished.

•·················•·················•

“Any dizziness?”

Anakin looked up, glaring at Obi-Wan through the flicker of the fire. He was sitting on the sand in their makeshift camp, trying to ignore the sound of Dooku chewing his mealpack with what were probably dentures, and the suns had long vanished from the sky. Obi-Wan was pacing nearby.

Anakin shook his head. “No.”

“Sensitivity to light and sound?”

“No.”

“Vision changes, headaches—”

“Well, _now_ I have a headache,” Anakin said. “From listening to you.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “I’m only asking. It’s possible you have a concussion—you did hit your head during the crash, and that could explain the, ah—”

“Okay, Vokara Che. We get it. You’re a healer.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re alright.”

“Well, I am. Thanks.”

The bitterness in Anakin’s voice was excessive, and he knew it. But he still couldn’t quite find it in himself to apologize.

“Or perhaps he’s merely going crazy,” Dooku said with a smirk, and Anakin had exactly zero remaining patience to even reply.

“Bold words,” Obi-Wan said instead, “from the senile one.”

And somehow, Anakin found himself chuckling at that. He knew Obi-Wan had done it on purpose—that kind of insult was a bit crass for his taste. More Anakin’s style. But it had achieved its intended effect—to get a reaction from Anakin—and so, Obi-Wan grinned.

“I only mean to say,” Dooku continued, “I don’t feel terribly confident in our odds of survival if our navigator is suffering from psychosis.”

“Well, then you can take a walk,” Anakin snapped back. “See how long you last against the krayt dragons and Tuskens. Go on. We’ll see what your odds of survival are then.”

Dooku hummed. “And we’ll see what _your_ odds are without me. As you’ll recall, I’m in possession of our water supply.”

To that, neither of them had a reply. Satisfied, Dooku laid down and turned away, though somehow Anakin doubted he’d sleep first.

Anakin exhaled. Obi-Wan had settled now and was sitting beside him—he felt his watchful gaze, but chose not to look back. Instead he wiped his hands down his face, settling his elbows on his knees as he stared into the flames. Allowed himself to be hypnotized by their flicker.

“I wish you’d told me.”

The words broke Anakin’s trance, and he turned. Obi-Wan shrugged one shoulder.

“Before, when you were having dreams. You never told me what they were about,” he continued. “Just that she was in them.”

And for some reason, the memory sent a pang through him—Coruscant, a balcony. An interrupted conversation. Anakin huffed.

“What, so you could tell me not to dwell on them? That they’d pass?”

“No,” Obi-Wan said, voice low and empty. “No. So we could have done things differently.”

He wanted so badly to be angry with Obi-Wan. To scream and shove and throw a fit, to insist that Obi-Wan should’ve pushed more, should’ve asked, should’ve done something before it was too late and his mother was dead. But no.

No—the only person Anakin had to blame was himself.

“Yeah, well,” Anakin said, staring hard at the flames. “’Could have’ is a dangerous game, isn’t it?”

Obi-Wan’s head bowed. “Yes. I know.”

They both did.

On the ground, Anakin bunched up his robe and stuffed it beneath his bed, a makeshift pillow. He rolled onto his other side, facing away. Mumbled goodnight. Obi-Wan didn’t reply, but he could feel eyes boring into him.

Anakin watched the fire flicker red through the insides of his eyelids and began his sleepless wait for sunrise.

•·················•·················•

They slept.

Both of them—Skywalker with a scowl on his face even in dreams, Kenobi with his lips parted in a silent snore. Far too trusting, too foolish, to be so vulnerable with Dooku just a stone’s throw away. Or, better still than stones—a lightsaber strike.

But Dooku simply sat. The flames had died to crackling coals, their muted hues painting the nearby sand in deep gold. He listened for a few long moments, making certain the evenness of their breaths was real. Ensuring their stillness was legitimate. And only when he was sure neither one would stir, when he was sure the only ones to witness were the moons and the stars—

Dooku reached into the pocket of his robe. He produced a datastick.

He just had to be certain. The crash had done damage to many things—even, it seemed, Skywalker’s mind—but there could be no damage to this. Silently, he inserted the datastick into his mini holoprojector. It flickered to life.

_There_.

Dooku heaved a silent breath of relief. The image hovered in his hand, full and round as a small moon.

It was, however, no small moon.

He powered down the projector and the light vanished, leaving them with nothing but shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's chapter 2! Thanks for reading, friends, I'll see ya next week! Comments and kudos always appreciated :)


	3. Shifting Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a distressing childhood memory, an injury, and a fear

Anakin wished he could walk with his eyes closed.

He wasn’t _seeing_ things anymore—at least, not as literally as the day before. His mother didn’t appear at the edges of his vision and her voice didn’t come across the wind. But there were other things—the trenches here, so much like the cliffs of Ben’s Mesa where he’d raced the Boonta Eve Classic. The rise and fall of dunes that he and Kitster had once slid down on a piece of scrap metal, pretending to sled like the travelers from Hoth had told them about. The sand beneath his feet, like that which had soaked up his mother’s blood.

It didn’t matter, whether the memories were good or bad. He just wanted them gone.

Beside him, Obi-Wan cleared his throat and peered over his shoulder, back toward the entrance to the cave from which they’d come. “You’re sure this is a shortcut?”

Anakin nodded. “Easier to cut through the cavern than scale the rock wall. We’ll come out on the other side and continue through the dunes.” His voice was firm, but still Obi-Wan didn’t seem convinced that this was fine—or maybe, that Anakin was. He crossed his arms. “What?”

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan said. “You just seem…unsettled.”

“Well, yeah,” Anakin snapped. “Aren’t you? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re stuck in the armpit of the galaxy with _him._ ”

He nodded at Dooku, who walked on Obi-Wan’s other side.

Obi-Wan’s face didn’t change. “Find your center. We’ve still got quite a journey ahead of us,” he said. “Breathe. Lean on the light side of the Force.”

Anakin’s head swiveled as Dooku made a gagging sound. “Would you kindly keep the ‘light side’ talk to minimum?” Dooku said. “This experience is already so incredibly unpleasant.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “It baffles me, truly, to know that you were once a Jedi.”

“Believe me,” Dooku replied, “I share the sentiment. So pompous, they are. So holier-than-thou. As if you’ll win some transcendental game against the universe this way, bringing about this ‘balance’ you speak of.”

Anakin would’ve ignored him, then—planned to, in fact. It had been fun at first, making fun of Dooku, but yesterday had drained the humor right out of him. Yet, for some reason, here was Obi-Wan—bothering to even engage him in discussion. Why waste time?

“Perhaps I do understand, then,” Obi-Wan said, “how you could’ve fallen so far—when you misunderstand the Force so profoundly.” He was cordial, almost pleasant, but there was a heat beneath his tone that Anakin didn’t know what to make of. “Life is not a game we play against the universe. The choices we make are not intent on victory, or spite, or even balance at the end of it all, at some cosmic finish line. It is not about the end result,” he said, “but about how we get there _._ And why.” He turned then, and his eyes found Anakin’s. “That is why we turn to the light. Not because it is a means to an end, but because it _is_ the end.”

But Dooku just rolled his eyes. “You got that from your Master. Still spouting off his wisdom all these years later, I see—haven’t yet found any of your own,” he said, and beside him, Obi-Wan stiffened. “It’s almost humorous, that he taught you that.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Because I taught it to him.”

He hummed. “I see you’ve strayed far from your own teachings, then.”

“They no longer serve me,” Dooku replied. “They failed me, as they will fail you.”

“Well, they didn’t fail your Padawan.”

“Oh, no? Then what do you call your Master’s demise, boy? What do you call you _own_ failure?”

Anakin wondered if Dooku could feel it too—the swirl of the Force around Obi-Wan, of guilt and shame and distress, before a puff of release diffused it. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, but still he could feel the tension in Obi-Wan’s steps.

“Perhaps I did fail him. As you did,” Obi-Wan said at last, his voice soft. “But the Force did not. The light did not.”

And at that, Dooku actually laughed. It had gotten nearly too dark to see, now, and he ignited his lightsaber to illuminate the cavern walls, the glow painting his face in red and making his eyes gleam crimson.

“I almost hope you die young, Master Kenobi. For pity’s sake,” he said. “May you not live long enough to realize you are wrong.”

And with the way the words echoed against the stone, booming and deep and painted in red lightsaber light, Anakin thought they almost sounded like a threat.

Or a premonition.

When Obi-Wan stopped walking, Anakin realized he was holding his breath. He could sense something strange in the Force—something bad, something _ruthless,_ and he almost didn’t want to hear Obi-Wan’s reply.

But then Obi-Wan just cocked his head to the side, and what came out instead was:

“Wait. Do you hear that?”

They’d come to a stand-still in the midst of the cavern, and Anakin took a moment to fully orient himself. The light from Dooku’s saber was weak, but he could just make out the textured yellow stone that lined the walls, the edges soft and eroded from millennia of sand. But there were little pores in the rock that Anakin couldn’t explain.

He had stopped walking, too. “Hear what?”

“Something’s creaking.”

“I thought it was just Dooku’s joints,” Anakin said.

But the jibe was met with silence.

Silence, until there came a quiet skittering sound.

“Okay, yeah, I heard that,” Anakin said. “But that’s nothing. Sounded like a rattlesnake—”

The sound came again—like wood rubbing slowly over sandpaper, like rice pattering into an empty pot. Like fingernails against durasteel.

Anakin met Obi-Wan’s eyes. They were wide.

“No,” Obi-Wan said. “No. I know that sound.”

“What?”

“We have to turn around.”

Anakin balked. “Turn _around_? And what, go rock-climbing to get to the other side? No thanks.”

“Trust me. We—”

“What’s the matter with—”

“Just _move._ ”

And then Obi-Wan was shoving him backward, albeit gently, but it took Anakin by surprise.

Though not as much as the giant ugly pincer bug that dropped into his face immediately after.

“ _Kriff—_ okay what the literal actual _kriff_ —”

“Anakin—Anakin get _back—_ ”

That was Obi-Wan’s voice—though weirdly high and strained as he yanked Anakin away from the pincers just a breath from his face. Then came the sound of a lightsaber igniting—Obi-Wan’s.

And then, they were everywhere.

Dozens, scores, hundreds—creatures with giant red pincers and more eyes than Anakin could count, crawling from pores in the rock and dropping down from the ceiling. Their legs skittered down the walls and across the floor. Their claws were nearly the size of Anakin’s face. And before he could even think to do a thing about it, they were surrounded.

“Firebeetles,” Dooku murmured.

“ _What_ -beetles?” Anakin hissed.

And then the bugs burst into flames, and that answered _that_ question.

“I thought these things were extinct,” Anakin said. “In Mos Espa—”

“Not extinct,” Obi-Wan said. He sounded a bit breathless. “Exterminated. From populated areas, at least.”

“Makes sense,” Anakin replied, igniting his own lightsaber now. “Tatooine as a whole doesn’t exactly qualify as ‘populated areas.’”

Anakin tried to shoot a wry glance at Obi-Wan. But then the first firebeetle was leaping forward, and the moment for humor was gone.

Obi-Wan’s lightsaber slashed a bug in half. “Keep away from the red fluid they spew,” he said.

“Do I want to ask why?” Anakin said between strikes.

“It’s the first step of the digestive process,” Obi-Wan replied, narrowly dodging a big one. “It begins to dissolve the flesh before they eat it. Like human saliva. Except much, much worse.”

“Okay, yeah, so the answer I was looking for was ‘no.’”

They needed to keep going down the cavern—or at least turn around. But no matter which direction Anakin turned, he found more firebeetles. Narrowly dodging the spew of more death-saliva, he pivoted so he was back-to-back with Obi-Wan. With Dooku between them, they made a triangle—and it briefly occurred to Anakin how strange it was to find himself fighting _alongside_ Dooku instead of against him.

But only briefly.

Because then a bug got past Anakin. It fluttered right toward Obi-Wan’s face, only giving him a second to duck before the red fluid shot out from its mouth like flames. Obi-Wan yelped. While Anakin was distracted, another bug spit fluid at his waist—striking his belt and melting through the leather.

He imagined it doing the same to his skin, and shuddered.

“We need to clear a path,” Anakin said.

“Obviously,” said Dooku from behind him. “But they’re drawn to our blades. Can’t you see it? The light is attracting them.”

“So what are you suggesting?” A firebeetle passed so close to his face that he felt the heat from its fire against his skin. “That we power them off?”

“Perhaps.”

“Right, okay. You first.” Anakin sliced a beetle in half right as it began to spit saliva, and the fluid spattered everywhere. He covered his face. “Any ideas, Master?”

Anakin ducked again. Behind him, there was silence. He risked a glance over his shoulder, fearing for a moment that he’d find Obi-Wan collapsed on the ground—but no, Obi-Wan was there. There, but his shoulders were tensed more than they should’ve been. His lightsaber form was too rigid.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Breathe, Master Kenobi,” Dooku said. “Your anxiety is polluting the Force. I cannot concentrate.”

Anakin tried to look, but instead found himself dropping to a crouch to avoid being attacked from above. But he could hear Obi-Wan breathing hard—probably a little harder than he should’ve been.

But Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” said Dooku. He slashed a firebeetle back before it could attach itself to Obi-Wan’s chest. “So your Master made up that little story about what happened on Tanaab?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“What was a long time ago?” Anakin said.

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan said.

“It was not that long ago, Kenobi,” Dooku continued. “You forget how young you are. And even so…”

He sliced through another beetle, and sparks rained down.

“…I’d find it difficult to forget the first time you disappointed Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Anakin felt Obi-Wan stumble.

But then before he could reach for him, it was happening so fast—a bug launched forward, too low for Anakin to swipe at it. It landed on Obi-Wan’s leg. Dug its pincers into his knee and skewered red saliva all down his pants.

The fabric caught fire.

“Obi-Wan—”

“Watch out, Skywalker—”

Dooku killed the bug that was flying toward Anakin’s cheek.

“ _Obi-Wan_ —”

He’d fallen back on his rear, pantleg flaming as the bug bared its fangs, and Anakin didn’t even take a moment to process the panic on Obi-Wan’s face before he was moving forward on instinct.

And so he did it—slashed the bug, lightsaber narrowly missing Obi-Wan’s knee. Then he reached for Dooku’s belt. Grabbed the water canteen. Unscrewed the cap.

He splashed the water at the flames and any nearby firebeetles.

The flames lessened, the bugs screeched and buzzed back from the liquid. Anakin exhaled. And then, as quickly as it had sped up, time grew slow and heavy—Obi-Wan patted out the rest of the fire on the fabric. The firebeetles scattered to the edges of the water splatters, then began to retreat. Anakin’s heartrate began to slow.

“Water,” he said, breathing heavily. “Makes sense. Wish we had a firehose.”

“Power down,” Dooku said, nodding to his lightsaber. “So they stay away.”

This time, Anakin didn’t argue. As his blade disignited, darkness fell.

And then he was rushing forward, dropping to his knees at Obi-Wan’s side. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he tried to take in Obi-Wan’s face, his burnt clothes, his wounds, but the image was fuzzy. Yet if he wasn’t mistaken, Obi-Wan’s eyes were wide.

“Hey,” Anakin said, resting a hand on his arm. “Hey. You okay?”

Obi-Wan nodded tightly. “Fine.”

“Your knee—”

“Is fine,” Obi-Wan finished, covering the wound with his hand. “The saliva burned through my clothes, but didn’t go deep enough to—”

But then Anakin was prying his hands from his knee, and the sight beneath them was enough to take Anakin’s breath away.

“It’s not bad,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “It just corroded the flesh a little—”

“Don’t move,” Anakin said, reached for his belt. “I have bacta. Not a lot, but—”

But when his hand found the place where the pocket used to be, Anakin stopped. The leather had melted clean away, disintegrated by firebeetle saliva.

The bacta was gone.

“Okay, so scratch that,” Anakin said, feeling his heartrate hitch again. “But—Kix taught me some field surgery, maybe I can—"

“Allow me, Skywalker.”

Anakin looked up. Dooku was peering down at him from above, and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness now to see the roll of gauze in his hand.

“Bacta wrap,” Anakin said. A _thank you_ bubbled to his throat, but he couldn’t quite find the will to say it. “Hand it over.”

“Ah. I believe Master Kenobi may benefit from the care of someone with…” Dooku glanced down. “…steadier hands.”

Anakin looked at his upturned palm. And sure enough, he was shaking. Badly.

He crossed his arms and stuffed his hands in his armpits.

“No,” he said. “I don’t trust you.”

“I assure you, my healing abilities are quite advanced. And a steady hand will ensure we don’t cause your Master any unnecessary pain.”

“No. I won’t let you _hurt_ him again.”

The words slipped out before Anakin had even processed them entering his brain, quick and biting and sharp. The image flickered somewhere behind his eyes—Obi-Wan, after Geonosis. The two of them together on the ground, a pile of broken parts, broken by _him_.

Anakin took a breath to center himself, but felt his hands still trembling beneath his arms. “I just—”

“Anakin.”

It was Obi-Wan who said his name, voice tight and strained. He was still breathing too hard, his hands shaky as they brushed a piece of hair from his forehead. And as Anakin looked him over, the pallor of his face was enough to make him pause.

He felt himself give in.

Looking at Dooku, resigned, Anakin just nodded. “Be gentle. That’s his bad knee,” he said, then narrowed his eyes. “Thanks to you.”

Dooku, to his credit, didn’t respond.

Instead he knelt down on the rocky ground. Obi-Wan was leaning back against the cavern wall, injured knee pulled up against his chest, but he released when Dooku gestured his hands away. Anakin watched in silence as he snipped away the tattered fabric, preparing to clean and wrap the wound.

Dooku didn’t look up as he said, “I imagine that stirred some memories for you.”

Anakin leaned forward, getting a better glimpse at the torn flesh—luckily, it didn’t seem to go deep enough to tear the ligament. _Thank the Force,_ Anakin thought. He remembered weeks of Obi-Wan limping down the hall to physical therapy with him, where Anakin relearned to use his hand after Geonosis, and Obi-Wan relearned to run. When anger started to bubble up again, he shoved the memory away.

Obi-Wan was watching Dooku’s hands, too. “We all have memories of our own childhood foolishness,” he said. “Certainly mine are not unique.”

Dooku hummed. “Foolishness. I believe your Master used that word, as well,” he said. “At least, eventually. After he surmounted his pitiable worry.”

At that, Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered up. “Worry?”

“Well, yes. It was pathetic, really,” Dooku said. “He commed me every day while you were in the Halls of Healing. While you slept.”

Anakin was beginning to feel lie a spectator in a ping pong match, rather than a participant in this conversation. “Obi-Wan,” he said, “what’s he talking about?”

“Ah,” Dooku said. “I take it you never told your Padawan about this particular incident.”

Obi-Wan was back to looking down. His face tightened as Dooku began to wrap his knee, but he didn’t cry out. Anakin tried not to notice the gentleness in Dooku’s hands.

“I was thirteen,” Obi-Wan said, sounding resigned. “On a field exercise to Tanaab, with some other Padawans. I was overconfident and fell into a pit filled with firebeetles.” He took a breath, and Anakin couldn’t ignore the fact that it was shaky. “I suppose it didn’t leave me with a fond impression of them, that’s all.”

“Nor your new Master of you,” Dooku said, and Obi-Wan’s gaze dropped. “And anyway, I believe Qui-Gon would agree with me that that is a bit of an understatement.”

“Is that what he told you?”

Dooku hummed, and Obi-Wan’s eyebrows lifted just slightly. “Among other things.”

Anakin stared at Obi-Wan, but he was too busy staring at Dooku to notice. In fact, they shared a gaze so intense that Anakin wondered if they remembered he was even there.

“I wasn’t aware you were still in contact with my Master, then,” Obi-Wan said, watching Dooku’s hands wrap the gauze around his knee. “Given that your path and mine never crossed.”

“Of course,” Dooku said. “Padawans and Masters share such things with one another. A certain trust exists between them, does it not?”

It was then that Obi-Wan looked up. Met Anakin’s eyes. And in the glimmer of blue that looked back, Anakin saw a lot of things—he saw a funeral pyre in the Jedi Temple that turned out to be false, saw the face of ghost that had returned after. He saw his wife’s laughter overshadowed by the fear of being caught, saw the question in Obi-Wan’s eyes each time he changed the subject. And at last, he saw a young Togruta girl running through the sewer tunnels, then closing his fist around beads that shouldn’t have been his to keep, shouldn’t have been taken from her in the first place—

Maybe, in his Master’s eyes, Anakin saw these things. Or maybe it was just the shadows.

In any case, Anakin looked away first. Found himself staring down at the bandage that now covered Obi-Wan’s knee, patched by hands that weren’t his. His blood surged with anger, then doubt, then despair. He opened his mouth to reply. But in the end, all that came out was this, soft and resigned:

“Careful. You’re wrapping it too tight.”

It was a long time before Obi-Wan searched for his eyes again. Even longer before Anakin looked back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it wouldn’t be star wars without some sort of weird bugs, now would it? Also, the thing about Padawan Obi-Wan on Tanaab is a reference to Wild Space by Karen Miller!


	4. Fine Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fathers and things we choose to forget

“Well,” Dooku said, standing again when Obi-Wan’s knee was sufficiently wrapped. “How does it feel?”

Obi-Wan straightened the joint, then bent it again. “Fine,” he replied. Though his face didn’t change, Anakin heard the tightness in his voice. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Dooku extended his hand, down to where Obi-Wan still sat against the sandstone wall. And to Anakin’s horror, Obi-Wan actually reached for it.

So before their hands could meet, Anakin stepped himself between them.

“Excuse me,” he said, forcing Dooku back and offering Obi-Wan his own open palm. “Here.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows lifted. He took Anakin’s hand and pushed slowly to his feet, but his gaze trailed over Anakin’s shoulder. When Anakin turned and saw that Dooku was looking back, he had exactly one thought:

_If anger leads to hate, I’m half Sith already._

When they finally emerged from the cavern, the sunlight drizzled down and poured into Anakin’s eyes, making him squint. It felt like years had passed since they’d last seen the suns—and with the way Anakin’s blood seemed to curdle with the heat of bitterness, he could almost believe they had. He intentionally walked a pace ahead of Obi-Wan and Dooku—easier to avoid their eyes. To pretend he was out here alone, the way he used to be.

And then Dooku opened his mouth, and that became impossible.

“Do you feel anything like the last time?”

The words were aimed at Obi-Wan. Though Anakin didn’t slow, he turned his head just slightly to see Obi-Wan shrug.

“It spread a bit, I believe,” he said. His voice was a little raspy. “But not far—I think the bacta wrap stopped it before it could go any further, fortunately.”

“Before what could go further?” Anakin said.

He hated the way Dooku and Obi-Wan met eyes.

“The firebeetle saliva,” Obi-Wan answered at last. “It begins breaking down the enzymes in human flesh, starting the digestive process, as I said. But it also infiltrates the bloodstream. Makes its way through the circulatory system.”

Anakin fully slowed, so they now walked side-by-side. “And what happens then?”

Dooku cleared his throat. “It stops the heart.”

“It _what_?”

“I’m fine, Anakin.”

“How the kriff do _you_ know? There was plenty of time for that stuff to move, we wasted time getting the bacta wrap on—”

“I know because it happened before. And I was fine then,” Obi-Wan said firmly, though his eyes skirted away. “Eventually. This is not the time to panic.”

“It’s exactly the time to panic! Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”

“I’m feeling like this conversation has exceeded its necessary length, and it’s time to continue our journey in silence.”

“No.”

“Skywalker,” Dooku cut in. “Please. Much larger quantities of saliva would be required to stop a human heart. I don’t believe there is serious cause for concern.”

“Oh, you don’t _believe_? Right, and we all know that what you believe is infallible, right?”

Dooku shot him a pointed look. “I _believe_ I agree with your Master. That this conversation is stale, and there is, at present, nothing to worry about,” he said. “Master Kenobi will tell us if the need for concern arises. Though, I will say, he is as stoic as his Master once claimed.”

Anakin felt his eyes narrowing as Obi-Wan’s grew wider.

“Qui-Gon claimed _me_ to be stoic?”

Dooku grunted. He looked up into the suns as he walked, and the creases in his skin grew dark with shadows.

“What, you believe the contrary?” Dooku said, and when Obi-Wan didn’t reply, continued. “Not so. Especially when he was young—I’m surprised to hear you, of all people, never thought him one to wear his emotions on his sleeve.”

Obi-Wan seemed to consider this. “Well, perhaps his feelings were transparent, much of the time. But that didn’t make him any easier to understand,” he said. “He was a walking paradox. Firm but gentle—”

“Indoctrinated but renegade. Yes, I know,” Dooku finished. “Even as a child.”

Obi-Wan’s looked up. “As a child?”

Dooku hummed. “He was a mystery, really. Climbing trees one moment, eating leaves just to see what they tasted like. The next slipping into the creche to cradle the younglings when they cried,” he said. “Getting into fist fights, then winning oratories with recitations of poetry.”

Obi-Wan practically choked. “Poetry? Are we talking about the same Qui-Gon?”

“Oh, certainly. Dante, Tennyson, Eliot—”

“Tennyson?” Obi-Wan said. “That one’s a surprise. Any chance he read—”

“What, ‘In Memoriam?’ Oh, believe me, I grew tired of hearing about it. He wrote an essay about it once, for class, something about the controversy over its use of iambic pentameter—whether it was monotonous or—”

“Oh, please—tell me he said the regulated metrical form was intentional for tonal effect.”

Dooku looked amused—a look Anakin never expected to see on the man’s face. “Something like that may have crossed his lips at one time, though I can’t say I remember now.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, incredulous. “I never knew that. I never knew we had anything in common, really.”

“Well. From what I heard of your apprenticeship, at least, I think he was very much like you.”

“I can’t believe that. On a personality level, he and I were opposites—he was a live wire, I did things by the book.”

“Not from the beginning, as I recall,” Dooku said, and both Anakin and Obi-Wan’s heads swiveled. “Master Yoda was always intentional with the Master-Padawan pairs he…gently guided together. In conjunction with the will of the Force, of course.” Dooku rolled his eyes. “You were a rebellious child. Put you with a rebellious Master, and the only way you could rebel against _him_ was to become a straitlaced rule-follower.”

Now it was Anakin’s turn to nearly choke. _What?_

“And it appears to have worked,” Dooku continued. “At least, from what I can see. And what I knew of my Padawan, at the time.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, then closed it again. A breeze fluttered the hair on Obi-Wan’s forehead, casting shadows across his face, and it was a long moment before he spoke.

“Then perhaps you did understand him fully,” he said finally. “At least, better than I.”

“Perhaps,” Dooku said. “Or perhaps that honor falls to neither of us.”

“What do you mean?”

The wind changed directions, blowing flecks of sand into Anakin’s eyes—and though the suns still beat down, he somehow felt colder.

Dooku exhaled. “The relationship between Padawan and Master is a unique one. It is built upon trust, upon mutual respect, upon the bidirectionality of teaching and learning,” he said. “But it is not necessarily built upon friendship.”

“You and Qui-Gon weren’t friends,” Obi-Wan said—a question, but more of a confirmation.

Dooku raised his chin. “Were he and you?” he said, and Anakin’s mind flickered elsewhere—to a landing platform ten years prior on Coruscant. An uptight, eager-to-please Padawan, an unorthodox Master. An argument. “Further, were you and _your_ Padawan?”

“That’s different,” Anakin said instantly, interrupting before Obi-Wan could reply.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Anakin snapped. “At least now. Maybe at the beginning, I needed…I don’t know. Someone to look up to. And I still do.” His eyes flickered up to Obi-Wan’s, but just as quickly fell away. “But I also needed a friend. So I don’t know what you think you know about Masters and friends and fathers, but you’re wrong. At least about me.”

“Who said anything about fathers?”

_Oops._ Well, Anakin hadn’t exactly meant to say _that_ , but…

He snapped back before his face could redden. “Don’t act so detached. Everyone’s got family, blood or otherwise. As if you didn’t leave the Order to go back to yours.” Maybe it was Anakin’s imagination, but at that, Dooku actually seemed to fluster. “Okay, I needed a father figure. So what? And besides, back then, I wasn’t the only one.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, eyes cast down. A tone of warning.

“What? You needed someone then too, and he was dead,” Anakin said. “And the only other person who could’ve filled that role decided to walk out.”

“Skywalker, my intention was not to—”

“I’m not debating that point with you, Dooku—you can claim to know all about Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan that you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that you left them. Left _him_ ,” he said, nodding toward Obi-Wan. “It doesn’t change the fact that you are where you are now, and we are where we are—on opposing sides.”

“Ah,” Dooku said. “Opposing sides, perhaps. But opposing sides of a fine line.” He looked at Anakin then, hard. “With only a few paces between where we stand.”

“Oh, cut the Sithspit.”

“Anakin—” Obi-Wan started.

“And don’t you go switching sides, any more than you already—”

“ _Anakin.”_

He stopped then, but not because he wanted to.

Because Obi-Wan was gripping his arm so tightly his circulation stopped. Stumbling sideways. Bumping against his shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Hey,” Anakin said, grasping Obi-Wan’s arm with his other hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan murmured. “I’m fine.”

“I said, what’s _wrong_?”

Obi-Wan inhaled, his eyes fluttering back open. Anakin did a double take at the realization that Dooku had a hand on Obi-Wan’s other shoulder—his watchful eyes taking in Obi-Wan’s tight face, controlled breaths.

Anakin felt something hot rising in his chest before he choked it back down.

“Just…a bit lightheaded, for a moment,” Obi-Wan finally said, swallowing. “Let’s continue.”

“No,” Anakin said. “Let’s take a break.”

“Anakin. You and I both know—the sooner we get to Mos Espa, the sooner this is all over. The sooner we can return to the front and complete our mission. We cannot waste time staying here.”

“But—”

“If you’re feeling faint, Master Kenobi, perhaps some water would help,” Dooku said, then shot a glare over Obi-Wan’s head at Anakin. “So it’s quite unfortunate that your Padawan decided it prudent to deplete our water supply.”

“Oh, excuse me for saving Obi-Wan’s life,” Anakin snapped. “Force forbid you should actually care about someone. Though I guess I wouldn’t expect any better from you, Darth Tyranus.”

He’d never actually used the name before—ever since he’d learned Dooku’s true identity, he hadn’t quite been able to reconcile the two. But now, it gave him power. This man was a Sith Lord. He deserved to be _called_ a Sith Lord. No matter how much he claimed to know Obi-Wan, and the link between them, this was an indisputable fact.

Over Obi-Wan’s head, each of them still holding one of Obi-Wan’s shoulders to keep him upright, he and Dooku held a bitter gaze. Until at last, Dooku’s voice came softly:

“How little you know,” he said. “Oh, how precious little you know.”

In the end, they did take a break. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, Obi-Wan needed to sit down before he really did pass out. And whether or not Anakin wanted to admit it, Dooku had made a valid point about the water. They helped Obi-Wan sink down to the sand, Anakin crouching beside him and pulling his small canteen from his belt.

It was obvious Obi-Wan was trying to keep his hands steady as he brought the water to his lips. Even more obvious that he was failing.

“You have to drink more than that,” Anakin said when he’d lowered it. “The more water the better—it’ll get the firebeetle stuff out of your system.”

Obi-Wan hummed, closing his eyes again. His skin was pale, and though the Tatooine suns were enough to make anyone sweat, his forehead hadn’t been that damp yesterday.

“We don’t have enough to spare on me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Overruled. Drink the water.”

At that, Anakin squatted down and shoved the canteen at Obi-Wan’s face, tipping it down his throat.

Obi-Wan nearly choked. “That,” he said, sputtering, “was extremely unnecessary. And wasteful.” But even as he spoke, the ghost of a smile pushed onto his face. Anakin breathed a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was waiting for. “Regardless, we will need water. All of us, if we’re to make it to Mos Espa. We don’t have enough between the three of us to make it another day and a half.”

“Well then,” Dooku said. He stood above them, casting a long shadow over them both. “I suppose that becomes our priority. Where does one find water here, Skywalker?”

Anakin laughed bitterly. “This is Tatooine. You don’t _find_ water. You make it,” he said, then shrugged. “Or, you steal it.”

Obi-Wan sighed, pushing the hair off his forehead. “Stealing isn’t preferable. Even in desperate times, moral correctness is the imperative.”

“Again,” Anakin said, rolling his eyes, “this is Tatooine. Moral correctness isn’t the imperative anywhere.”

“Well,” Dooku said, the look on his face mildly amused. “Where do we find some? We are, I remind you, in the middle of nowhere, and if we could find a settlement to begin with, all our problems would be resolved. We wouldn’t even need more water.”

Anakin exhaled, rocking back on his heels. “This far out…well…”

He stared off into the sand, where the horizon line was so thin that the sky was indistinguishable from the land. But somewhere in the haze, he could make out the outline of a four-legged creature—a bantha, then another. Grazing in the heat.

And he felt the prickle of a very, very bad idea.

“Well, Skywalker?” Dooku said. “Do you have an answer, or not?”

Anakin swallowed the dryness in his throat. Looked down at Obi-Wan, who was still pale and shaky. Then off into the horizon yet again.

He made a decision.

“Come on,” Anakin said, starting forward before he could change his mind. “Follow me.”

•·················•·················•

An hour did nothing to ease the doubt that stung like bile in his throat. By the time they’d positioned themselves at the peak of a trench in the Jundland Wastes, crouching behind boulders, Anakin’s heart felt like a blaster bolt ricocheting against the inside of his chest. Fast. Erratic. In danger of bursting through to the other side.

_Maybe that would be better anyway,_ Anakin thought to himself. _Then I wouldn’t have to go through with this._

“Are you certain there’s no alternative?” Obi-Wan said, voicing doubts of his own—though, admittedly, very different ones. “I was thinking, if I had the right tools…the particle separator in my lightsaber could be altered if we adjusted a few settings—I thought perhaps we could extract hydrogen and oxygen from the air and combine the raw elements into a compound, creating H2O—”

“Holy kriff, Obi-Wan. Please tell me you’re kidding. You’re not actually considering performing nuclear fusion with your _lightsaber._ ”

“I think it could be a viable alternative, while time-consuming—”

“We don’t _have_ time! Now relax and let me do what I need to do.”

“I—”

“Funny, Master Kenobi,” Dooku chimed in, looking about as amused as Anakin felt. “I don’t remember you having any qualms about stealing when you were young.”

Obi-Wan scoffed. But there was a weird tension in the movement that made Anakin pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? You don’t recall anything about a joyride in a J-type star skiff? The Senate parking lot, circa 39 BBY?”

Anakin turned, and…hold on. Was Obi-Wan turning _red_?

“I—wh—Master Dooku, that was _not_ —” he stammered. “It was all Quinlan’s idea. I went along to prevent further disaster or political uproar, and—”

“Oh, is that so?” Dooku replied, with what Anakin could only describe as a smirk. “As your Master told the tale, you were the ringleader of that particular band of circus clowns.”

As Obi-Wan sputtered, Anakin felt his own jaw hanging open. He didn’t know what was more unbelievable—the fact that Obi-Wan had apparently been a teenage starship thief, or the fact that he’d just called Dooku _Master._

“I was—hold on,” Obi-Wan continued. “How did Qui-Gon even know about that? How do _you_?”

“Please. If Qui-Gon had confronted you about it, he would’ve been forced to admit that _he_ hijacked a few starships in his youth. Some quite a bit more luxurious than senatorial Nubians.”

At that, Obi-Wan actually _laughed_. “What? You’re joking.”

“Oh, I certainly wish I was.”

“How—”

Anakin was almost glad for the interruption of a screaming Tusken Raider, because it saved him from having to scream at them himself.

Obi-Wan and Dooku sobered, following Anakin’s gaze down into the trench below. There, some on foot and some with bantha mounts, the sandpeople pottered along in single file. They were smaller in numbers that Anakin remembered seeing when he was young—though perhaps he had something to do with that—and they walked slowly through the sand. But still, watching them, Anakin felt as though nothing had changed at all. He was 19, standing in their camp surrounded by bodies. He was 17 and dreaming about faces he couldn’t remember when he awoke, nine and running from their clubs with Kitster in tow, five and heeding his mother’s warnings to stay far away.

At that, he wanted to scoff. Who could’ve known, then, that it wouldn’t be the little boy who should follow that advice?

“There they are,” Anakin murmured, looking away.

“I don’t see how this is going to work,” Obi-Wan said. “They’re not even carrying canteens. How do you know they—”

“We’re not looking for canteens,” Anakin replied. “They’re headed back to camp—their food quota is full for the day, you can see it in the bantha pouches. They’ll take it all back to feed the rest of them.” He glanced over, but Obi-Wan still looked unconvinced. “We follow them back, get to their moisture vaporator, and fill our canteens. Easy.”

“Ah, I see. Easy.”

Though the droll words were aimed at Anakin, Obi-Wan was looking at Dooku again, and Anakin found himself wanting to scream. But instead, he stood and hopped over the slab of rock before them, beginning to zig-zag down the steep decline. Time to go.

He glanced back only once, in time to see Dooku holding Obi-Wan’s arm to help him limp down the uneven terrain.

Anakin kept walking alone.

It was nearly dark when they made it to the camp. From a short distance away, it all looked much the same—the scattered huts, the sunset light drizzling the sand in a pink hue. He remembered noticing that last time—how the setting of the twin suns made him feel like he was seeing red. The light stained everything like blood.

When they stopped at the edge of the camp, Anakin closed his eyes. Yet all the while, he felt the claws of ghosts trying to scrape them back open.

“Where now?”

Obi-Wan’s voice brought him back. He took a breath, let it go. Centering himself. They were crouched now behind the outermost Tusken hut, peering around the fabric siding. Anakin tried not to look at it—tried not to remember his lightsaber slicing through a similar dwelling—

“In the middle of camp,” he said. “So it’s well-protected. Like I said—water is a commodity here. There’ll be guards, to make sure no one takes more than their allotment. And that no outsiders do what we’re about to do.”

Obi-Wan exhaled. “Wonderful.”

“Perhaps just one of us should go,” Dooku said. “After all, Master Kenobi is in no condition to run. We’ll be detained.”

“And let you get all the water for yourself?” Anakin said. “I don’t think so.”

Dooku rolled his eyes. “Fine. You go.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him,” Anakin said, ignoring Obi-Wan’s snort of protest. “So I guess that means either all of us go, or none of us do. Your choice.”

“Anakin—” Obi-Wan began.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows lifted at the rebuke, but he didn’t say anything. Anakin felt his face grow warm.

“Fine,” Dooku replied at last. “We all go. But if there’s trouble—”

“Oh, shut up,” Anakin said. “There’s already trouble. Get used to it.”

He didn’t wait for Dooku to reply. When he stood and stepped out from behind the hut, entering the Tusken camp, his every footfall felt like a funeral procession.

They moved through the tents and huts, the sand speckled with the occasional firepit or meat hanger. But the camp itself was quiet—no sandpeople in sight. Anakin couldn’t explain, then, why his heartrate seemed to double. Why his hand shook as he lifted it to his lightsaber, then let it fall to his side again, emptyhanded. _Not this time,_ he thought. _This isn’t like before—_

Before, when he had lost her. Before, when he had dipped his toes into the pool of slaughter, then leapt in the rest of the way.

_Ani? Oh, it is you._

It was him. It was him.

They turned a corner, arriving at the very center of the camp. There, as Anakin had promised, was the water vaporator, surrounded by sandpeople. They stood with their backs to him now, spread out but near enough to communicate amongst themselves, and all Anakin could do was stare.

Stare, and imagine himself cutting them down, one by one by one by precious, monstrous one—

_I slaughtered them like animals._

“Well, Skywalker?” Dooku said. “We’ve made it this far. What’s your grand plan?”

_Like animals. Animals without conscience. Without thought, without moral principles or a whisp of empathy, without a care for who they hurt, or why._

And in that moment, Anakin realized he was not talking about the sandpeople.

He could feel Dooku and Obi-Wan staring at him. He staggered on the spot, watching the guards circle the water vaporator, both sickened and mesmerized by their sinister dance. This was a terrible idea. He should’ve sent Dooku. Better to lose your water and gain your sanity than the other way around—

_Like animals._

_“Ani?”_

His chest hurt.

_“My son.”_

The world was red with twin sunlight and blood and blood and _blood_ —

“Anakin.”

It was Obi-Wan’s voice, but that wasn’t who he heard.

“ _Now I am complete.”_

No.

And then Obi-Wan’s voice really did come through, for a short moment, during which Anakin found himself clinging to the side of a wooden hut with white knuckles and gasping for short, sour breaths—

“Anakin,” he repeated. “Anakin. Do you…see her again?”

_Slaughter._ He exhaled. _Slaughter, slaughter—_

Anakin’s voice was dead when the words came in reply:

“Everywhere,” he said. “Oh, _everywhere._ ”

He was gone before his knees could even meet the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I skipped last week’s update because life was crazy, but we should be back on track now! I mean life is still crazy lol but I think I’ve got myself a little more together. Thanks so much for reading and commenting—knowing that people are following this fic makes it even more fun to write!

**Author's Note:**

> Guys! Hello! I’m writing a multichapter fic! I’m really excited about this one, and if you follow me on tumblr you’re probably tired of me talking about it lol, so I’m so hype to have Chapter 1 up!
> 
> There’s gonna be 9 chapters, and I’ll post updates every Sunday :) Thanks for reading and see ya next week! Comments and kudos always appreciated <3
> 
> You can come scream with me about star wars on tumblr here: [ kckenobi ](https://kckenobi.tumblr.com/)


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